


But If You Loved Me

by sourwolfing



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Murder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-16
Updated: 2014-06-28
Packaged: 2017-12-23 15:39:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 16,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/928218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sourwolfing/pseuds/sourwolfing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They looked at him with pity in their eyes and a sad smile and just stood back and watched him unravel because no one knew how to fix him. No one knew how to fix Stiles Stilinski because Stiles Stilinski was always too busy trying to fix everyone else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reincarne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reincarne/gifts).



The footsteps were right behind him - fast and heavy and full of purpose and he couldn't seem to escape them, no matter how many times he quickened his pace or took countless twists and turns or rounded corner after corner. They were always right there, right on his heel, echoing in his ears - the only sound he heard over his own heart beating. But every time he turned around, nothing. There was no one. Not even a shadow of a figure lurking somewhere in the distance.

But they were there. He could  _feel_   them.

Watching, waiting, planning. But for what? He only wished he knew. Maybe then his heart wouldn't be threatening to give out at any moment. Maybe then he wouldn't feel so afraid. Because he could prepare himself, find some line of defense. Only, he had nothing to go on. No threats, no warnings, no  _proof_. Only an incredulous gut feeling that had been clawing away at him during every waking moment for weeks, which was the same as saying nearly every minute of every day. He hadn't been getting much sleep. He was practically running now, hardly ever looking ahead, almost always looking back. The footsteps were louder now and matching his pace but he couldn't see them. He couldn't see them but they were there and they were getting closer and it was getting so hard to breathe because he was absolutely panicked.

And then there was a noise, a thud. A collision.  _He_  had collided with something. Someone. And he fell. Still he didn't look up, he just kept looking back with a face white with fear because they'd surely catch him now - but the footsteps were gone and for the first time the only pair of eyes he felt on him were eyes he could actually see.

_Peter._

"Do you make a habit of creepily poor timing?" Stiles scoffed, picking himself up off of the ground with no help from Peter, brushing the dirt and sand and whatever filth from the sidewalk off of his jeans.

"Do you make a habit of running around town alone in the dark from invisible monsters?"

_Touche._

There was a crash - the sound of a metal garbage lid hitting the pavement - and he lost his footing, whipping around so fast fully expecting to see some hideous creature barreling toward them with barred teeth and a lust for blood in its eyes that he tripped over nothing and fell backward into Peter once more. But instead of letting him fall, the werewolf wrapped a careful arm around this waist and helped him back to his feet, and there was this look on his face that Stiles could only describe as a sick satisfaction. There was a hand that lingered too long on the small of his back but Stiles was too busy riding what was left of the panicked high his fear had induced to really notice or pretend to care.

"It was a cat," Peter breathed into his ear, pulling his hand away, "You're very jumpy tonight, Stiles."

"And you're still creepy. Now we're both stating the blaringly obvious."

He feigned offense, but Stiles could tell that he was enjoying this, watching in contentment as he glanced back again still expecting to see something - or someone - there. But there was no one,  _nothing._ There was always nothing.

"Are you sure it was a cat?"

"Do you doubt me?"

"A homicidal, psychopathic werewolf? No, why would I ever doubt you."

"It was a  _cat_. Or would you rather I lie to you and tell you that you have a crazed stalker?"

Stiles stared at him with obvious dissatisfaction, but he would never admit that he almost wished he had. He felt like he was losing his mind, hearing and feeling and seeing things that weren’t really there. But they _were_ there – he knew it, knew that what he was experiencing was very much real and he just needed someone to understand. Someone to look him in the eye and tell him that he wasn’t crazy. But he knew that he didn’t have much of a chance if a werewolf was telling him that the monster that had been plaguing his every thought and keeping him up at night was nothing more than a street cat.

***************

“Stiles?”

The door crept open, moaning and shrieking in protest as it went, and his father stepped inside with more caution than Stiles had seen in his stride in years. Walking on eggshells. He had been tiptoeing around for weeks, like the slightest sound or movement would set him off. Stiles knew why he was doing it but that didn’t mean he had to like it. Because now he was the same as everyone else.

Scott. Allison. Lydia. His father.

They looked at him with pity in their eyes and a sad smile and just stood back and watched him unravel because no one knew how to fix him. No one knew how to fix Stiles Stilinski because Stiles Stilinski was always too busy trying to fix everyone else.

The air was thick and hot and wet, his reflection nothing more than a shadow as he walked past the clouded mirror and Stiles smiled with morbid fascination because that muddled likeness was something like what he expected to find every time he looked over his shoulder. His father reached over and shut off the water, stopping the steady flow of scalding heat pouring from the shower head. The curtain was drawn, water carpeting the linoleum floor. And Stiles, still in his bed time clothes, was so transfixed on the mirror that he didn’t hear his father call his name one more.

There was a hand on his shoulder, a violent shake.

“Jesus Christ… Stiles!”

It felt like… _falling_. One minute he was gone and the next he was being pulled down from his own thoughts, crashing into reality so hard and fast it took his breath away. He could see his father now – could see him pulling away, the frustrated look on his face and worry in his eyes.

“What the hell are you doing?”

But Stiles didn’t answer. He couldn’t. What was there to say? There were no words that could make him understand. If he knew – if he knew the truth, he’d think he was crazy, just like the rest. They all thought he was crazy. They would never say it but they did. He could see it on their faces and hear it in their voices – and the way they treated him like a thin piece of glass. No one wanted to be the one who broke him. No one knew how to help.

***************

The loft was quiet, empty. No one was home.

He had used the key Derek had given him – the key he’d forced him to make. Up until now he’d only ever used it for pack purposes, and even then he’d rarely ever had to. But now he was there for entirely different reasons. Selfish reasons. But he needed to be there, needed to feel safe. Derek made him feel safe.

It was empty and cold and so void of anything and just screamed Derek and it made him feel _safe_.

He walked into Derek’s bedroom and lay down on his bed, curling up on top of the sheets and closed his eyes, and he let himself drift off to sleep for the first time in three days.

***************

_Voices._

They were everywhere and nowhere, nothing more than quiet whispers but it felt like they were screaming. They were in his head, all around, _everywhere_ – and they were all telling him the same thing. Whispering, taunting him with quiet threats and torturous promises and he just wanted to shut his eyes and scream loud until his voice gave out, just to drown it out. Because he didn’t want to hear. Didn’t want to listen to what they had to say. Didn’t want to listen to them all telling him the same thing.

He was going to die.

***************

Waking with a start, he screamed and fought, lashing out hazed mass hovering over him. He didn’t want to die, wasn’t ready to die.

“Stiles – Stiles stop, it’s me!”

His body relaxed as his vision cleared because _that voice_ – he knew that voice. It meant he was safe. The room was dark and he was still in Derek’s bed and everything was alright.

Stiles tried to speak, to apologize, but there was nothing there and his throat was so sore and his voice so absolutely wrecked that his “Sorry,” came out as nothing more than a hoarse and barely audible croak.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” it was pathetic and rough and quiet and he cleared his throat and tried again, “I’m fine.”

Derek sat on the end of the bed and Stiles curled up, pulling himself away. There was a time he would have just let it happen, hardly noticing and not at all minding the sudden closeness because they were pack. _Friends_. But Stiles wasn’t really sure if he even had any of those anymore. There were days where it seemed like they had all but abandoned him. But he couldn’t really blame them if they did.

“I was going to wake you up when I got home –“ he paused and Stiles braced himself because the fucking _eggshells_ , “- but the other you said you haven’t been sleeping, so…”

“Then why’d you wake me up?”

It was hash, accusatory, like all of this was somehow Derek’s fault. But he needed someone to blame – needed something real and breathing and something he could freaking _see_ to be the source of all the shit that was going on. He knew it wasn’t Derek’s fault. None of it was. But for now he could carry on and act like he was pissed just because someone had woke him up from the first decent sleep he’d had in weeks.

His face dropped, like he knew he had no choice but to bring up what they’d all been avoiding for weeks, and Stiles thought that that was what he wanted, but it turned out that it didn’t make him feel better at all.

“Stiles, you were _screaming_.”

***************

Opening up, letting it all out. It didn’t feel as good as he’d hoped. It didn’t feel good at all.

His worst fears were coming true.

They were all pulling away. All of them. Scott. Allison. Lydia. His father. _Derek._ He could see them, hear them, touch them – but they weren’t there. Not anymore. It was like staring at photographs of people he once knew, but he knew that in the outside world – to everyone else around him – _he_ was very much the ghost. The stranger. A shadow of a memory of a boy who no longer existed. They didn’t understand, but he’d never expected them to. Wanting and expecting were too entirely different things, he’d learned. He wanted them to understand. Wanted them to look at him and tell him that everything was going to be alright because they _knew_ – they knew he wasn’t crazy and that there was something there, and they would find it and stop it before it could get to him. But they didn’t understand and he couldn’t expect them to believe in something that wasn’t there.

So he didn’t talk about it. He just let them believe that he was slowly losing his mind. Maybe it was better that way.

ButDerek – Stiles had thought that he, of all people, would understand. He tried, my god did he try; Stiles could see it clear as day on his face. But he didn’t. Couldn’t. So Stiles just stopped explaining. Stopped wishing that he could find the words that would help it all make sense.

***************

“You know, maybe you should just take a picture.”

Even though he had lost countless hours of sleep and had hardly eaten in days, Stiles refused to let go to the one thing that had kept him sane ever since his mother’s death. Sarcasm. At one point he would have defended his somewhat crass sense of humor to the very death, claiming it was his one and only defense against the horrors of the world. Now he couldn’t help but find himself pathetic for ever thinking that way, but he just couldn’t seem to let it go – if only because it was the only part of himself he had left to hold onto.

Usually his sarcasm would ignite some sort of a spark – would result in some sort of glare or eye roll or scoff or witty response, and sometimes even all four and then some. But Peter simply stepped forward, face unmoving and cased in concern. He’d only seen this side of Peter a few times before – something that had never worried him before.

“Stiles…”

Soft. Pleading. _Worried_. He didn’t like it.

“No, don’t start –“

“Stiles please, just listen to me –“

“I said no!”

They both stopped. Because it was unexpected. Loud. Angry. Not at all like Stiles. And then he just walked away. Walked right out the door, ignoring Peter’s cries, please for him to just _fucking wait a second and listen_. But he didn’t want to. Didn’t want to listen to another all-knowing adult lecture him about the difference between fantasy and reality and getting help because he has a _serious problem_. Fuck that.

But what he didn’t realize – not until much later would he notice – that Peter wasn’t staring at him. He wasn’t staring _at_ him with concern. It wasn’t concern. It was _fear_. He wasn’t staring at him.

He was staring past him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles just turned away, sinking down onto the mattress until his head hit the pillow. He pulled his knees up to his chest and closed his eyes and pretended like the voices weren’t all around him, like he couldn’t hear them. Because Peter couldn’t hear them and that made it easier to pretend they weren’t there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem fragments are excerpts from 'The Reaper and the Flowers' by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

“Where’s Stiles?”

That was his father’s voice. Upset. Angry. Cold. He didn’t want to be here. But he was. Because he knew. He knew his son was the boy who runs with wolves. But he didn’t see it that way. His son was the boy who runs with former murder suspects and psychopaths.

He still didn’t like Derek. Didn’t like that Stiles spent so much time with him. And he’d grown tired of explaining, of trying to make him understand that once you take away the perpetual scowl and the fact that he could turn into a red-eyed monster, there was nothing to be afraid of.

Derek tried to calm him down, but his voice just grew louder and louder.

“Where’s my son?”

“Sir, he’s fine he’s just –“

“Where the hell is he? I want to see him. Now.”

But he didn’t move, didn’t turn to look at the door. He just sat there, silent, staring out at nothing and wishing he could feel something. _Anything._

“He’s sleeping.”

“He’s sleeping – what is that, wolf code for naked and chained to a bed?”

Someone laughed. Peter. He didn’t know Peter was here. And then the door closed. His father was gone. It was almost like he’d given up too easily. Or maybe he was relieved – glad that he was holed up somewhere else that wasn’t home. Glad he was someone else’s problem for the night.

Footsteps. He could hear footsteps and for a moment his heart stopped. But they didn’t stop when he looked and he watched the door open and he didn’t realize how badly he wanted Derek to walk through the door until his heart dropped with disappointment.

Peter.

“Good, you’re awake. We really need to talk.”

Stiles just turned away, sinking down onto the mattress until his head hit the pillow. He pulled his knees up to his chest and closed his eyes and pretended like the voices weren’t all around him, like he couldn’t hear them. Because Peter couldn’t hear them and that made it easier to pretend they weren’t there.

***************

He pushed the plate away – the second time in as many minutes. Derek was frowning, hand inching forward to push the plate toward him a third time but Stiles put his hand up and stopped him. It was his favorite. Spaghetti and meatballs. Derek had gone out of his way to make it. Stiles hadn’t even known he could cook. But he didn’t want it. He wished he did. He wished he could eat it all and help himself to seconds and know that his stomach would hold it all down. It wouldn’t. It hadn’t in days.

“Stiles, please…”

_Pleading_. Derek Hale is pleading. Practically on his hands and knees tired and worn with defeat but still holding on to a certain shred of hope, begging, hoping, wishing – all to get Stiles to just fucking _eat_. And if he’d had the energy to dwell on it for more than a couple of seconds, he would have found it touching. But the voices. The _voices_. They were so loud this time. Inside his head. Whispering, singing, _promising_.

“I want to go home.”

He tried to stand but couldn’t, and Derek helped him up, walking with him to the door and tried to walk out with him but Stiles pushed him away. They were so _loud_. All he wanted to do was get away. Run far and fast. They didn’t need to see him like this. Not Scott, not his father, not Derek. He was falling apart. They didn’t need to see.

They didn’t need to watch him die.

_“_ _There is a Reaper, whose name is Death,_  
And, with his sickle keen,   
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,   
And the flowers that grow between. _”_

Down the stairs, out the door. Into the Jeep. Stiles flew out of the lot so fast, not bothering to check for traffic – flinging himself onto the road as fast as the engine would let him. Down the street – left, right, right, left. He didn’t know where he was going. _Away_. He was going away. Away from the town and everyone he knew and loved because they didn’t need to _see_.

_“_ _And the mother gave, in tears and pain,_  
The flowers she most did love;   
She knew she should find them all again   
In the fields of light above.”

The voices – they were singing, chanting, growing louder and louder with each passing second. He wanted to scream, wanted to drown them out with the sound of his own voice but he knew he would never be loud enough. Nothing would ever be loud enough. He was on the verge of insanity, the breaking point. There was only one outcome and he knew it – he’d known it all along. He was going to die. It was all just a matter of how.

_“Are you ready to die, Stiles?”_

***************

It was all a blur of shapes and colors and lights. He could see but he couldn’t. There was everything and nothing and he couldn’t tell up from down – all he knew was there was _pain_. His heart was threatening to burst from his chest beating faster and louder than ever before and it hurt. It fucking _hurt_. And his head. His _head_. He felt like someone had set his mind on fire and god he just wanted to die. But not to end the pain.

He just wanted the voices to stop.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The voices. They were gone. Gone, gone, gone. Silence had never felt so good, so beautiful, so pristine. And he smiled. Because for the first time in a long time, he could.

He woke up in his own bed.

Getting up, he moved slowly across the room towards the open door – he never slept with the door open. Something felt different. Not off, just… _different_. And that’s when he stopped, right in the middle of the hallway, because it was so blaringly obvious he didn’t know how he hadn’t noticed it before.

_The voices._

They were gone. Gone, gone, _gone_. Silence had never felt so good, so beautiful, so pristine. And he smiled. Because for the first time in a long time, he could.

***************

The house was empty. His father had probably just gone to work early. Nothing out of the ordinary.

He still didn’t have an appetite – a conclusion he came to begrudgingly after standing in the kitchen for nearly ten minutes, trying to decide what to eat. But it was alright; it would come back to him in time. Everything was back to normal now.

***************

“Melissa? Melissa – can you get a hold of Scott? No… no I need to talk to him right now. Is he home?”

Stiles hadn’t heard his father come home. He’d settled down on the couch and shut his eyes and drifted off, and when he opened them again, there he was.

He was in the foyer on his cell phone, pacing back and forth and he looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Normally that would concern Stiles – and it still did – but a lack of sleep was something they’d both grown incredibly used to.

“Please, just try and get a hold of him… It’s Stiles. He’s missing.”

Jumping up from the couch, he let out a nervous chuckle, half waving as he moved towards his father, “Dad? Dad… I’m right here.”

Nothing. “It’s been two days, Melissa. He’s never gone this long. Derek said he left the loft Monday night, that he wanted to come home and… Just please, talk to Scott.”

“Dad?”

The Sheriff hung up the phone and sat down at the kitchen table, placing it down and staring at it. Waiting, wishing, hoping. And Stiles just kept moving towards him, kept talking and waving and trying to get his attention but getting _nothing_.

Panic. He was absolutely panicked because he didn’t know what else to do.

“ _Dad!_ ”

His father couldn’t see him. Couldn’t hear him. It was like he wasn’t there.

***************

Standing over his own body was like nothing he could have ever imagined.

He didn’t remember dying. He didn’t remember much of anything. There was the loft – the voices, the singing, the creepy rhyme. He remembered getting into the Jeep but he didn’t remember driving. And the pain… it was hard to forget the pain.

And then he’d woken up in his own bed like nothing had ever happened.

But something had happened. He’d _died_. He was dead. And he was standing there beside his father while the Deputy told him it was an open and shut case. No foul play. And that she was sorry.

Stiles Stilinski was dead. Gone, gone, _gone._


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The door opened and shut and Stiles turned to look out of habit and curiosity, and almost turned away because it was only Peter. But he stopped because something was different. All day he’d been faceless, voiceless. People he knew and loved had walked right past him, no matter how loud he shouted or how hard he tried to get them to see. But this was different. So very, very different and he knew his heart would be beating like mad if he still had one, and he couldn’t take his eyes off of him, even when he walked away.

He’d thought that watching his father stand alone in the middle of the field outside the reserve where they’d found his body for hours, even after they’d taken him away in a body bag, would be the hardest part. But he was wrong. So very, very wrong.

It was the funeral.

It was standing back and watching everyone wonder why he’d done it. Wonder how they were going to carry on with their lives without him in it.

Scott was crying. So was Allison, and Lydia and even Danny shed a tear or two. Isaac looked uncomfortable – sad and distant, but Stiles knew that the graveyard was probably the last place he wanted to be. And his dad. His _dad_. Standing so small beside his casket, trying his damndest to hold his head high and keep himself steady but it looked like the slightest breeze would knock him over, and Melissa kept reaching over and grabbing his arm and giving it a soft squeeze to try and be reassuring but her eyes were swollen and red and her cheeks so sticky and wet and hot with tears because Stiles was _family_.

And then there was Derek.

_Derek_.

Stiles searched the crowd, hoping to spot his face. But he wasn’t there.  

***************

He stayed, long after the crowd had dispersed – long after Melissa pried his father away and coaxed him into her car and drove him home so he could sit with family and friends and try to forget.

He stayed. Long after they lowered his body into the ground, beside his mother.

He stayed. Watched them pour the dirt into the hole and pack it in and leave when the job was done like it was nothing. Like it was just another day in the life… Like they weren’t just burying the body of an eighteen year old boy.

And he wondered if that was what happened to people who were surrounded by death.

***************

“I just… I still can’t believe he’s gone.”

Stiles is sitting on the floor at the foot of Melissa’s bed, listening to the two of them talk because he didn’t know what else to do. Staying home with his father wasn’t an option. He couldn’t watch him anymore. Couldn’t listen to him sobbing while his friends tried to coax him out from behind the closed door with promises of tea or coffee or something to eat, or even just with gentle pleas of ‘ _don’t go through this alone_ ’.

“I know, Scott. I can’t either.”

They both sound so broken and Stiles just wants to jump up and scream and cry and flail about like a fool until they just fucking _notice_. He wants them to see that he’s still here. Still tethered down to this god damn fucking shit hole of a town and not standing in front of the pearly gates or wherever the hell spirits were supposed to go when they died. He didn’t want to be here anymore. Not if he wasn’t alive. Not if he couldn’t reach out and wipe the tears from his father’s face. Not if he couldn’t wrap his arm around Scott’s shoulder and tell him that everything was going to be okay. Not if he couldn’t remind Lydia on a daily basis that she had so much to offer the world.

Not if he couldn’t wait up until all hours of the night, waiting for Derek Hale to climb through his window.

Not if he couldn’t tell him that maybe, quite possibly, he’d fallen for him.

***************

The loft was quiet.

It was too quiet and it was making him uncomfortable. But he stayed. He stayed because he couldn’t bring himself to leave just yet. Not until Derek moved or sighed or closed his eyes. Not until he did _something_.

He had been sitting there, by the window, for hours; had been there when Stiles had arrived just as Isaac was leaving. Convenient, seeing as he hadn’t quite figured out how this whole ghost thing worked and still couldn’t pass through anything solid – a strange sensation, because it felt like he had never really left at all. Like he was still alive. The world just couldn’t see him.

Stiles just wanted to touch him – to reach out and run his fingers through his hair and hold him tight and do all the things he wished he could have done. All the things he never realized he’d wanted to do until now. Until it was too late.

And he wished he’d told him everything. All his doubts and fears and hopes and dreams and made him believe without a doubt that he wasn’t crazy. The voices were there and he was still very much Stiles and he was more in danger than he’d ever been. He’d opened up, tried to tell him, but he hadn’t tried hard enough. And there was so much he wanted to ask him. About his family, about his life before the fire, about love, about the future. But most importantly, the thought weighing down most in his mind:

“Derek… why weren’t you there?”

***************

Stiles sat on the counter for hours, even after Derek had fallen asleep, just watching. He knew he should be home with his father – that home was where he should have wanted to be. But he wanted to be _here_. Wanted to curl up in Derek’s bed and pretend like everything was okay. But nothing was okay. It was all the very opposite of okay.

The door opened and shut and Stiles turned to look out of habit and curiosity, and almost turned away because it was only Peter. But he stopped because something was different. All day he’d been faceless, voiceless. People he knew and loved had walked right past him, no matter how loud he shouted or how hard he tried to get them to see. But this was different. So very, very different and he knew his heart would be beating like mad if he still had one, and he couldn’t take his eyes off of him, even when he walked away.

Because Peter Hale had looked right at him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he thought of Peter he thought of Laura’s dead body and murder and chaos and being threatened and slammed against cars and sass and he had really kind of believed that he’d made a home for himself in a creepy, dark, damp underground cavern of some kind and not some posh, newly developed condo on the outskirts of town.

That look. It could only be described as an invitation. A silent command. It was a look that only Peter could give.

For a while, Stiles had managed to convince himself that he’d imagined it. That Peter was simply looking at something beside him or behind him and that there was no brief moment of eye contact – it was all just a figment of his imagination.

But after he’d woken Derek and made sure he was tucked away safely in his bed and nosily thumbed through the mail sitting precariously on the coffee table, unopened, and made his way toward the door, it had happened again. That look. An invitation. He was leaving and Stiles wanted answers so he had no choice but to follow.

Silence.

The whole way down the stairs and out the building – silence. Not one did Peter turn to look at him. Not once did he say a single word. Just walked, and kept walking, and Stiles wondered once again if he’d simply been imagining it all in some desperate attempt to find some sort of solace in his newfound situation. He hadn’t even been a ghost for an entire day (though from what he’d gathered, he’d been dead for nearly two) and already he was tired of it. If he couldn’t go back to living, the least the big man upstairs could do was let him move on. He’d been through enough; he’d paid his dues, babysitting werewolves and continuously putting his life on the line. Selflessly, he might add. Surely he’d earned himself a place in wherever it was good people were supposed to go when their lives were through.

“Can you see me?”

Stiles had caught up to him now, matching his stride as he walked down the sidewalk, keeping his gaze fixed straight forward. No acknowledgement. Nothing.

“Peter – you can see me, can’t you?”

_Nothing._

“Peter? Peter! – can you hear me?”

Still nothing. Almost. Stiles could have sworn he’d heard a muffled, _‘shut up’_ , but it could have been the wind or a cough or anything. Just noise.

***************

“Do you _ever_ stop talking?”

Stiles wanted to cry. He wanted to jump and scream and pump his fist in the air and sing ‘ _Glory, Hallelujah’_ because Peter Hale just _spoke to him_. But instead he just rolled his eyes and gave a slight snort because of _all the god damn freaking people in the world_ it had to be Peter – and apparently being a fucking ghost wasn’t reason enough to be nice to him for a change.

“Do you ever stop being an asshole? C’mon, show a little respect for the dead.”

“I didn’t bury you under the charred remains of your old home like a piece of trash. I’d say you’ve gotten plenty of respect.”

“Well, I didn’t kill six people.”

Peter rolled his eyes, “If you’re going to be obtuse, just leave.”

Stiles snickered, “Obtuse? What is this, the nineteenth century?”

Peter seemed highly unamused, kicking off his shoes as he entered his home, leaving the door open long enough to enter, shutting and locking it behind him like that was enough to keep his enemies of the supernatural sort from breaking in. And that seemed to be the end of the conversation because Peter announced that he was off to take a shower and Stiles was free to help himself to anything in the kitchen before flashing a wicked grin, looking quite pleased with himself as he walked away.

_Asshole._

***************

There was literally nothing to do in Peter’s condo. No television, no radio, nothing. Just a small shelf full of slightly charred books – mostly just informational books on werewolves and various other humanoid monstrosities. It was no wonder why the guy spent more time at Derek’s loft than he did his own home. Other than some furniture and a few odd choices in decoration (very art nouveau, very classy, and improbably enough very Peter), it was virtually empty. No photographs, no clutter, no nothing. It was carefully constructed and cold and felt nothing like how a home should feel. Not something that slapping a few picture frames on the wall could fix, but it would help. Though Stiles doubted he had many of those left after the fire, and even then he probably didn’t want them around.

And then Peter walked into the room with nothing but a towel loosely wrapped around his waist looking bored and slightly indifferent like this was all so normal and blasé. Like Stiles wasn’t dead and he wasn’t the only person in the whole freaking world who could see and hear him.

It was incredibly frustrating.

But he didn’t say a word, just fetched himself an apple and took a bite and held it out as some sort of an offering and laughed when Stiles shot him a glare that could freeze hell itself.

***************

“Are you going to talk to me or are you just going to ignore me all night?”

Peter was sitting at the kitchen table, fully clothed, hair still slick with water and he smelled like soap and Old Spice and it was making Stiles incredibly uncomfortable because this wasn’t how sociopathic werewolves were supposed to behave. They weren’t supposed to calmly read the paper and take showers and walk around deliciously wet without wearing any clothes. This was not what he thought of when he thought of Peter – not at all what he imagined.

When he thought of Peter he thought of Laura’s dead body and murder and chaos and being threatened and slammed against cars and sass and he had really kind of believed that he’d made a home for himself in a creepy, dark, damp underground cavern of some kind and not some posh, newly developed condo on the outskirts of town.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” he said flatly, gaze darting up from the page just long enough to meet Stiles’ impatient eye.

“Are you – you’re kidding, right? I’m dead. I freaking _died_ and you can _see me_ but there’s nothing to talk about…”

“No, that pretty much summed it all up quite nicely.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“At least I can.”

It was an incredibly low blow, even for Peter, and he walked away without another word because Peter was enjoying this way too much.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles was sitting across from him in the chair that Peter had pulled out for him like a true gentlemen, a very polite werewolf treating his ghostly guest with the utmost respect. And it had made him pause to think that maybe this wouldn’t be so bad – that maybe a psychopath wouldn’t be the worst company in the world.
> 
> He was very, very wrong.

It was morning before Stiles talked to Peter again, following him into the kitchen after he’d come down the stairs with tousled hair and eyes still foggy with sleep.

“Can we actually talk now, or are you going to keep pretending like I’m not here?”

“I don’t know why you’re in such a rush – you’re not going anywhere.”

Stiles pretended like that wasn’t the least bit insulting, “I want to talk _now_. I’m sick of waiting.”

“Well you’re just going to have to wait a little bit longer. I refuse to be productive until I’m presentable.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered under his breath, “Of all the _freaking_ people –“

“One should always look their best, Stiles,” Peter cut him off, giving Stiles’ outfit – the same pair of tattered jeans and faded hoodie he’d been wearing when he died – a once over with a disapproving gaze, “No matter what the situation.”

“Sorry, I’ll remember to wear a dress shirt the _next_ time I die.”

But Peter wasn’t listening, already moving down the hall and up the stairs, no doubt to get dressed and fix his hair and whatever else it was he did as part of his routine. It didn’t really matter because Stiles didn’t really care – not when there were far more pressing things to worry about. Like what the hell had happened to him and why Peter could see him and what the _flying fuck_ was he supposed to do _now_.

***************

They walked in (almost) complete silence, Peter ignoring Stiles’ frequent inquiries about where, exactly, they were going. He just kept walking and Stiles kept following because it wasn’t like he had much of a choice. It was either stick with Peter or try to figure out this mess on his own, and – as much as he hated to admit it – right now the formerly homicidal-happy alpha was his best bet at trying to make some sense of anything.

Eventually, Stiles stopped asking. He started guessing. And he’d thought he’d nailed it on the head when he guessed that they were going to see Deaton, but then Peter turned and Stiles stopped because this was the last place he’d been expecting, and it was the last place he wanted to be.

***************

“Would you stop _fidgeting_?”

“Stop _fidgeting_? You brought me to the fucking graveyard and we’re standing on a mound of dirt next to a stone with _my name_ on it and my body is in a box under said mound of dirt, rotting away as we speak, and you want me to _not_ have a mental breakdown?”

Peter just sighed and leaned up against his headstone – and if he could, Stiles would have strangled him right then and there because that fucking _asshole_ – and made a sort of panoramic gesture, “Just stop. Look around. Tell me what you see.”

“People. I see… people.”

“ _Ghosts_ ,” Peter corrected.

“What are they all doing here?”

“They’re _stuck_. They all have something that’s tying them down, that’s keeping them from crossing over. And they can’t move on until they figure out what it is or find some way to fix it. Which, unfortunately, means most of them never will.”

Stiles was silent for a few moments,  unsure of what to do or say until a simple thought slipped into his mind, “Can you see them?”

And Peter just nodded his head and looked away, “Every single one.”

***************

They visited Derek at his loft after their trip to the cemetery.

Well, Peter visited; Stiles just stood back, sitting silently in the corner while they talked about werewolf things, both oh so carefully tiptoeing around the subject of his death whenever it threatened to spill from their lips. They refused to speak of it but it was lingering over them, dark and heavy and _loud_ – and Stiles just wished that Peter would bring it up, just drop the bomb and let it all go where it may, even if it meant watching Derek fall apart.

But then he does and Derek tensed, face growing so pale and twisting and turning in anguish and now he kind of wished he hadn’t said anything at all. All because of one little sentence, six tiny words:

“I went to visit him today.”

It was a half-truth, an attempt at a somewhat non-confrontational and natural approach. The kind of spoken word that made Stiles remember that they were family, that they had both been to hell and back. That Peter had a heart and soul. He was there for the sake of Derek’s well-being – not for the benefit of Stiles’ curiosity.

Derek said nothing, standing up and walking out of the room and away from the conversation, leaving Stiles with no answers and Peter to let himself out.

***************

“Okay, now you’re just being an ass.”

Peter had fixed himself dinner – a nice steak with a side of green beans and mashed potatoes – which he was eating at an almost inhumanly slow rate, making the most sinful noises with every bite.

Stiles was sitting across from him in the chair that Peter had pulled out for him like a true gentlemen, a very polite werewolf treating his ghostly guest with the utmost respect. And it had made him pause to think that maybe this wouldn’t be so bad – that maybe a psychopath wouldn’t be the worst company in the world.

He was very, _very_ wrong.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Can you quit with the noises? Please?”

“What?” there was a look of innocence on his face – but the look in his eyes was absolutely devilish, “I’m just enjoying my dinner.”

“Well, enjoy it a little less… _Jesus._ Would you _stop?_ ”

***************

He was sitting at the foot of Peter’s bed, noting how it hadn’t shifted under his weight. The lack of sensation, the lack of feeling, was still something he was getting used to – though he wasn’t sure he ever would. He could still touch things. Could still reach out and touch people and things but there was _nothing_. They didn’t feel like anything. And that made him wish that he couldn’t touch at all, that he would just pass right through. He couldn’t do that yet, though; he was still learning. The art of apparition, Peter called it.

“How are you so calm about all of this?”

Peter was in the bathroom, the door slightly ajar to let out some of the steam from his shower, Stiles occasionally catching a glimpse of a shoulder or foot or the back of his head as he moved about. The door flew open soon after he posed the question, and he (again) walked out wearing nothing but a towel and Stiles couldn’t help but roll his eyes because he just didn’t _get it_.

“You’re not the first ghost I’ve talked to, Stiles.”

“That doesn’t really answer my question.”

“Would you rather I freak out? Throw my hands up in the air and scream because there’s an incredibly non-threatening ghost in my bedroom?”

“Still doesn’t answer my question.”

He sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed, running a hand through his still-damp hair, “Look, Stiles – this isn’t anything new to me. I wish that I could say it was, but it’s not.”

There was silence for a while, neither of them moving or meeting each other’s eye – just frozen, heavy quiet.

“You being able to see me – see _them_ – it’s because you died… isn’t it?”

Peter turned to look at him, his face solemn and eyes sad, but there was a steadiness to his posture – tall and poised, unfaltering. Because he had no regrets. He’d done what he had to do to survive, and that was that. Maybe he would have done things differently if he could – Stiles could see that now – but he’d done what he had to do and this… _this_. There were no words, nothing was said, but in that moment he had learned more about Peter than he had in two years.

Eventually Peter turned away, bowing his head and staring down at his own hands and Stiles wondered if he saw them as red and stained with blood. If he always had the sharp taste in his mouth and the bitter smell in his nose.

There was sadness and anger, but there were no regrets, “Reanimation has its price.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was late in the evening. The sun had long since set and Stiles was sitting by the open window, staring up at the stars. He could feel eyes on him – Peter’s eyes, no doubt; he’d grown accustomed to the stolen glances and lingering gazes over the past few days. But there was something else. Something cold and unfamiliar and, had he still been alive, he would have felt afraid. But now all he could truly feel was curiosity and the weight of crushing dissatisfaction.

“Peter, just open the god damn door!”

They had been arguing for close to an hour – Stiles frantic and frustrated in his movements, loud and quick with his tongue; Peter calm and stoic, quiet and terse. All because of a door – a door that Peter refused to open.

“You need to learn sooner or later, and trust me, the former is better than the latter.”

He wouldn’t open the door, insisting it was high time that Stiles learn how to move _through_ it.

“I’ve tried a hundred times and I still can’t do it, so can you _please_ just open the door?”

Peter just shook his head and made his way toward the kitchen, “You’re not going anywhere until you can get out of here yourself, Stiles.”

***************

“What are you reading?”

“Hamlet.”

“Why?”

There was a brief sigh – a quick, displeased huff – but Peter never once lifted his gaze from the page, “Because I enjoy it.”

Silence.

This wasn’t what Stiles was used to. He was used to noise – the soft and steady buzzing of old appliances, the hum of a television in the background, the rhythmic, gentle tapping of his foot or a pen or his fingertips. Just _noise_. Any kind of noise. Because he’d never really enjoyed the quiet. It was deafening, heavy, and full of deep thoughts and innermost fears and it made him feel entirely alone. Noise kept him company. It made him feel safe.

“Could you read it out loud?”

The question seemed to catch Peter off guard, as he set the book down and turned to look up at him, his face full of a soft but gentle confusion, “What?”

“The book – or, the play, rather. Could you read it out loud?”

There was another sigh and Peter tried to seem annoyed but Stiles could see the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips, “I’m not going to start from the beginning; I’m already half-way through.”

Stiles just shrugged, pushing himself off of the counter and sitting down on top of the table, his legs dangling over the edge so dangerously close to Peter’s own, and he couldn’t help but wonder if Peter would be able to feel him, too, “That’s fine. I’ve read it before. Plus, I’ve seen the Lion King and Strange Brew like, a hundred times.”

And that was enough to make Peter smile – and actual smile, at that – because sometimes he (and everyone, really – including Stiles himself) forgot just how smart he really was. The smile put him at ease, because this could be something that they both enjoyed. It let him know that, for once, he wasn’t inconveniencing anyone. He wasn’t sure if that was ever really the case, but it sure as hell always felt like it.

Peter picked up the book, pausing for a moment to look up at him over the pages, a light in those pale blue eyes that Stiles had never seen before – and then he began to read. It was not at all what Stiles had expected, what he had grown used to throughout his years in school: slowly at first and full of caution, unsure of how the words would sound when falling off the tongue. It wasn’t like that at all. There was no hesitation, no doubt. Just a steady flow of rhythm and words in a voice so sickly smooth like warm honey.

And for a short while, they let themselves get lost in it all. They forgot where they were and whose company they were keeping – and Stiles forgot that he was dead, that the life he’d had was gone, because all that mattered was the softness of Peter’s voice and the beauty it brought to every word and he realized that this was how life was supposed to be. No danger, no worries, no cares. Just _simple_.

***************

“Stiles!”

The door slammed shut and he could hear the click of the lock and Peter’s frantic footsteps. Stiles moved towards the noise, out of the bedroom where Peter had dug out an old radio and tuned it into one of those stations that only played clichéd classic rock so he would have something to listen to while he was out, and down the stairs. There were several paper bags at Peter’s feet, most of which had toppled over, their contents scattered on the floor. It looked like he had dropped them, and by the look on his face, it had been entirely on purpose – like there was something else, something more important that he needed to do.

“Yeah, what’s –“

“Are you okay?”

“I’m dead and I’m being held prisoner in your stupid condo, I think by definition that’s the very opposite of okay.”

Peter was not at all amused, “I’m serious, Stiles.”

He was confused and was certain it showed all over his face, “I’m fine. Why, what’s going on?”

“It’s…” he paused, stopping himself from saying more, thinking better of it, “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

Stiles rolled his eyes and took a few steps closer, “No. You can’t _do_ that – you can’t come running in hear and freak out and then not tell me what happened. It doesn’t work like that. Not anymore. You can’t lie to the dead. Isn’t that like, a thing?”

“Stiles, really, it’s nothing.”

He didn’t believe him – not even a little – but he let it go.

***************

It was late in the evening. The sun had long since set and Stiles was sitting by the open window, staring up at the stars. He could feel eyes on him – Peter’s eyes, no doubt; he’d grown accustomed to the stolen glances and lingering gazes over the past few days. But there was something else. Something cold and unfamiliar and, had he still been alive, he would have felt afraid. But now all he could truly feel was curiosity and the weight of crushing dissatisfaction.

“Do you want to listen?”

Peter’s voice pulled him away from the window and the stars and the outside world, brought him back down to reality: that he’d been dead for a week and that he was still very much stuck in Peter Hale’s condo. But the latter didn’t bother him much anymore; just the former.

“What?”

“The book,” Peter held it up, an old and tattered copy of A Midsummer Night’s Dream; he’d been reading it for a while, but it didn’t look like he’d gotten very far. Probably because he’d spent more time staring at the back of Stiles’ head than actually reading.

“Only if we can talk for a little bit first.”

“It was a yes or no question –“

“And I gave you an answer.”

Standing up, Peter walked towards him – book in hand – and sat down beside him at the windowsill. He thumbed at the pages for a moment, neither meeting the other’s eye, and Stiles wondered if it was better that way. Because they weren’t supposed to be close – weren’t supposed to carry on as if nothing was wrong and that living together, side by side, as something close to friends. This wasn’t supposed to be normal. At some point they’d have to remember that, would have to accept the situation for what it really was.

“The other day, at the loft, you said we needed to talk –“

Peter cut him off, “Stiles, don’t –“

“No, let me finish! You said we needed to talk, and we didn’t. And yeah that’s kind of my fault but there was a lot going on in my head that night that I really just couldn’t even think about having a conversation with _anyone_ , let alone you – but now that I’m here and I have all these questions and all this… this _shit_ that I’m trying to figure out, you won’t talk to me. It’s like pulling teeth and I’m tired of it. So I just need you to be honest with me and say you’ll help me, or say you won’t. Because I need to freaking know.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

There was a long pause. Peter was staring out the window now, down at the small stretch of grass behind the condos that led up to the edge of the woods, a bitter and uneasy look on his face – but when Stiles leaned forward, whatever had captured Peter’s attention was gone and his face had softened. But he’d tightened his grip on the book’s spine, knuckles white with tension and Stiles wanted to ask what he saw that had him so freaked out, but he knew better.

“I’ll help you.”

***************

“Go through it again. Detail – it’s all about the details.”

Stiles groaned and flopped down onto the bed. Nothing moved, nothing shifted, nothing changed. It was almost a shame, too; it looked like a very comfy bed.

“We’ve already been through it _three times_ – I told you, I don’t remember anything.”

They had walked through the night of his death over and over again – how Derek had tried to get him to eat, and how he’d left and gotten into his jeep, and how everything after that was all a blur. He didn’t remember driving out to the preserve. Didn’t remember walking through the woods to get to the field, and he sure as hell didn’t remember _dying_.

“Just _think_. Close your eyes and relax and think. Not just about what you saw. Think about what you smelled. What you heard. It will help, trust me.”

He bit down on his tongue, thinking twice about making some witty remark about how Peter was the last person on the planet he wanted to trust – but right now, he didn’t have much of a choice. If only because he was stuck in his condo until Peter let him out or he learned ‘the art of apparition’. So he closed his eyes and tried to relax and let his mind wander back to the night he’d wandered out of Derek’s loft, the voices in his head screaming so loud he couldn’t even hear himself think. The night he drove himself out to the preserve in a daze. The night he died, alone.

“I heard cars – horns. Probably. I don’t know. I couldn’t really hear anything…”

“Why?”

“I just… Rubber. And oil. And _burning_ I can smell something burning. My jeep?”

“Has your jeep ever smelled like that before?”

“Once. When I drove too fast.”

And it went on for a few more minutes – Stiles musing out loud, recalling everything he heard or saw or smelled which wasn’t much at all. It didn’t spark any new memories – only new theories and more questions. Still, he kept thinking, kept trying, kept pushing. Silently. There had to be something, somewhere, that could help them piece it all together. Something that would break it all open and shine a light in the dark – without having to come clean about the voices…

Stiles sat up and shook his head and Peter frowned when he said that he couldn’t remember anything. Nothing useful, anyways. And right away he knew that _Peter_ knew. He could see it in his eyes, the mistrust and the disappointment and Stiles couldn’t believe that Peter had really thought that something would come of this – that Stiles would trust in him completely, wholly, steadfastly. But that wasn’t the case. He’d learned a long time ago to never trust Peter Hale. Even under these circumstances. So it was time to stop acting like a naïve fool – to keep his guard up, and watch his mouth and his step. The truth was he did remember something. It was cloudy and quick and made no sense at all, but it was there. No matter how brief or confusing, it was a memory. Right before everything had faded away, right before he’d closed his eyes for the last time, he’d seen a face.

_Matt_.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They walked together towards town, Stiles not really caring where they went. For the most part they were silent. Peter had made it very clear that he would not talk to him in public, not even in front of Derek or Scott or the rest of the pack. There were a lot of people who thought he was crazy enough already; he didn’t need to add more wood to the fire. And Stiles understood. To a certain extent, at least, because a part of him wanted Peter to come clean – to tell Derek and Scott and his father that everything was alright, that he was still here and he loved them and he was sorry for not saying goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think I mentioned this before, so I'll make note of it now ~ This fic was very much inspired by the song 'All I Want' by Kodaline, and I pulled the title from the song. It's a great song and it gives me all the shippy feels.

“Jesus Chr – cut it out!”

“You’re not having fun? I am. It’s very _cathartic_.”

Peter picked up another apple from the basket and threw it at Stiles. It was the fifth one he’d thrown in the past few minutes and Stiles seemed to be the only one who wasn’t finding it funny.

They had company now – a young child, the age of nine, who had died of Leukemia. She had the brightest green eyes that Stiles had ever seen and a smile that could melt even the coldest of hearts. Maybe that was why Peter hadn’t protested when she had followed him home from the market. Her name was Angela, and Stiles had taken quite the liking to her, not that it showed at the moment. He didn’t like much of anyone right then.

“Would you _stop?_ It’s not funny!”

“You say that like this actually hurts. You can’t feel it.”

“Dead or not I still don’t enjoy people throwing things at my face.”

“Then… evaporate.”

Stiles paused, and even Angela stopped giggling to turn and look over at Peter; and now it was Stiles’ turn to laugh, “That was an… interesting way to phrase it.”

He threw another apple.

***************

Four apples, two tantrums, one passive aggressive pep talk from Peter and a (what he now knew was false) threat of bodily harm to his father later and he’d finally done it.

He’d walked through a wall.

Or, well, Peter’s front door to be precise – and the werewolf had been standing there on the sidewalk, facing the door, bright eyed and beaming like he knew exactly what was going to happen. And maybe he did. Maybe Peter knew Stiles better than he liked to think and knew that throwing his family into the mix was just the push he needed. It worked. He didn’t know how he’d done it, exactly, but that didn’t matter right then. Because for the first time in over a week he was free of the confines of Peter’s condo.

Angela had gone back to her family’s home so that she could watch over her mother. The woman had M.S. and was the reason why the little girl had yet to move on. She wanted to make sure that when her mother finally passed on, it was in peace, and that she’d be there to greet her on the other side. It was touching – very touching – to the point where Peter had stopped listening as she rattled on for hours about her and her mom’s diseases, but Stiles couldn’t pull himself away. All he could think about was his mother, about what happened after she died. Had she stuck around like Angela, to watch over him and his father? Or had she moved on, completely at peace with her passing and confidant that Stiles and the Sheriff would be able to carry on without her?

They walked together towards town, Stiles not really caring where they went. For the most part they were silent. Peter had made it very clear that he would not talk to him in public, not even in front of Derek or Scott or the rest of the pack. There were a lot of people who thought he was crazy enough already; he didn’t need to add more wood to the fire. And Stiles understood. To a certain extent, at least, because a part of him wanted Peter to come clean – to tell Derek and Scott and his father that everything was alright, that he was still here and he loved them and he was sorry for not saying goodbye.

***************

“You know, you’d feel a lot better if you’d just talk about it.”

Derek rolled his eyes, “What are you now, some sort of shrink?”

“No, but I _am_ your uncle, and I care about you.”

There was a noise – sort of a cross between a laugh and a snarl, and Stiles didn’t have to look to know that there was a look of extreme discontent on his face, “The only person you care about is yourself.”

“That’s not true,” Peter replied quickly, his voice steady and rhythmic but even Stiles could make out the slightest twinge of genuine offense.

Derek must have sensed it as well, sighing heavily, “You didn’t go either.”

“That’s not the point. And besides, you and I both know that my presence would have been highly inappropriate. The Sheriff would never have allowed it. We’re not exactly friends.”

“He’s not exactly my biggest fan, either.”

“But he would have tolerated you, wouldn’t have protested you being there. He knows how much you meant to Stiles,” Peter said gently; there was a lot of rustling, and Stiles turned around in time to watch Peter edging closer to Derek, “And how much he meant to you.”

And that was it, all that Stiles could bear to take. So he walked toward the door, closed his eyes, imagined himself going straight through – and he did.

***************

He had a feeling that Peter was going to be a while, so he decided to go for a walk. Besides, now that he’d learned the art of apparition, it didn’t matter where he went or what he did – because now he didn’t need to wait for people to open doors for him. He could let himself into Peter’s condo whenever he felt the need to return. And with this newfound sense of freedom, he wasn’t quite sure he ever wanted to go back.

But he had to. In the back of his mind, he knew – eventually, he’d have to go back.

For now, though, he had freedom and all the time in the world. He could go anywhere he wanted, but he found himself making a bee line straight for the cemetery. It didn’t take long for him to find his mother’s tombstone; it was right next to his own, after all, and he’d visited her plenty of times over the years. He could find it in his sleep.

And he just stood there, staring, for a long time.

He didn’t really know what to do or say – he didn’t even know if she could hear him if he spoke. So he stayed quiet and solemn and hoped that, wherever she was, she was happy and free and knew that he’d never stopped loving her. Never stopped missing her.

“Stiles?”

There was a brief flutter of hope, as if by some miracle his mother had heard his thoughts and come to find him. But it faded as quickly as it had come because he knew in his heart that it wasn’t his mother’s voice. It was a soft, airy voice with the faintest edge, lacking all traces of his mother’s silky tonality. But he turned around anyways, even though the voice wasn’t one he recognized, because they knew his name and curiosity had always gotten the best of him.

He turned and his jaw dropped and he shut his eyes tightly for a moment before reopening them, because surely he was imagining things. That face – he’d recognize it anywhere, had seen it so many times in nightmares and dreams alike. The long, dark hair and the pale blue eyes. He’d only ever seen her face once before, but once was definitely enough. Because when you dig up half of a body in the middle of the night, that kind of thing tends to stick with you.

For a long time his voice was caught in the back of his throat, and when he did speak, it was dry and cracked and every syllable was heavy and hesitant on his tongue, “L-Laura?”

She smiled sadly and looked almost relieved, “You know who I am.”

“Of course…” his voice was quiet, hardly above a whisper, eyes darting all over and taking her in – all of her, in one piece – for the first time; she was beautiful, “You look just like him...”

He didn’t need to finish the thought. They both knew exactly who he meant. _Derek_.

“And _you_ can’t trust _him_.”

There was no need to elaborate. They both knew exactly who _she_ meant.

He was silent for a moment, rubbing at the back of his neck, staring out over her shoulder instead of meeting her gaze, “I don’t… it’s not like I really have much of a choice.”

“There’s always a choice. He’s not your only option. There are plenty of people here who could help you.”

“You’re forgetting the fact that everyone here is dead. Sure, they can help me with all the ghost stuff or whatever, but I need more than that. And right now, Peter is my only connection to the outside world.”

“Stiles, he can’t fix this – you’re dead and you need to move on.”

“How can I move on if I don’t even know what the hell happened to me?”

Laura pursed her lips, eyes narrowing for a moment, and Stiles couldn’t help but roll his eyes because even the _mannerisms_ were the same. The way she’d crossed her arms over her chest and stood tall and firm and strong, and could change her entire feel with just the slightest movements in her facial expression. It was genetic, clearly, a shared trait amongst all the Hale’s. Even Peter.

“I can’t answer that for you, but I know you don’t need Peter to help you piece it all together.”

Stiles shook his head and took a few steps back, “I’m sorry – I know you just want to help, but I just… I can’t. I can’t turn my back on Peter. Not yet.”

And that was it – about as much conversation as he could take. On the subject of Peter, that is. Stiles had always wondered what it would be like to sit down and talk with Laura. He’d imagined it would be like talking with a slightly cheerier version of Derek. If they had been discussing other matters or had met under different circumstances, he supposed it might have been. It seemed as though she still had something left to say, though, because she called after him as he walked away:

“It’s because he can talk to Derek, isn’t it?”

He paused and said nothing, but he assumed that was all she needed as an answer. But he kept walking, kept telling himself that she had it all wrong. He needed Peter. _Needed_ him. He told himself over and over again that Peter Hale was the best chance he had at figuring out this whole mess. Even though he knew in the back of his mind that she was right – if only just a little. Fucking _werewolves_ , man.

***************

“Peter?”

The condo is dark and quiet, but Stiles knows it has to be well after midnight by now. Peter was probably asleep. He hurried up the steps, and tiptoed down the hall, poking his head through the open bedroom door. The bed was empty and the light was off in the bathroom. Maybe he was still at Derek’s. But then he saw something move out of the corner of his eye – nothing more than a quick shadow, but movement nonetheless. He took a step inside and the shadow did the same, slowly moving into the pale light shining through the window until Stiles could make out a shoulder and bits of arm and neck. It definitely wasn’t Peter.

Peter hale would never be caught dead wearing a hoodie.

“Long time no see, Stiles.”

That voice. It cut through his very core and sent a shiver up his spine. He stopped, dead in his tracks, and watched in awe and fear as the all too familiar face stepped further into the moonlight.

“What has it been, Stiles, two years? We _really_ should catch up.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All he could feel was pain. He didn’t think it was possible. He was dead. He died. The sun, the wind, the steam from Peter’s showers, the softness of the sheets – he couldn’t feel any of it. And so he just assumed he couldn’t feel at all. Wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Stiles wished that Peter, or Laura for that matter, had warned him. Told him that it was possible to feel something even after death. But maybe they didn’t know. Maybe they weren’t aware that it was possible. But that really didn’t matter. Not now.

“How the hell did you get in here?”

His tone was sharp, demanding – all fear had been pushed aside, if only for a moment. Because Matt Daehler didn’t belong here. This was Peter’s home and Stiles had almost let himself start to think of it as his own. It was his sanctuary, his safe haven. And Matt had no right to be here.

“The same way you did. Pretty cool, isn’t it? But, of course, I’ve had more practice than you,” he paused for a moment, smiling arrogantly as the overhead light flickered on, “Amazing what you can do with a little ghostly energy.”

“Why are you here?”

“No witty comebacks or snappy retorts? I must say, I am a little offended,” but his face said otherwise, laughing at how Stiles took a step back when he edged closer, “What’s with all the questions?”

“You know damn well why,” and he expected some sort of response, but Matt just laughed again and it took everything Stiles had not to lose all train of thought and just break down, “Why are you _here_?”

Matt frowned, “Isn’t it obvious?”

Stiles rolled his eyes, “Obviously not, maybe you should enlighten me.”

“There we are,” he seemed incredibly pleased, “There’s the Stiles we all know and love. Well, _love_ might be pushing it a bit… But relax, Stiles – take a seat. I only want to talk.”

“I’m fine right where I am.”

“Suit yourself,” he took a few steps forward, smiling when Stiles flinched, and took a seat on the edge of the bed.

Nothing about any of this felt right. Nothing. Matt was far too calm, enjoying this far too much – and not in the sense that Peter had. No, the werewolf enjoyed it because he _understood_. But Matt? He was enjoying his terror, his pure unbridled fear. Everything – from the smile on his face to the ease and contentment in his posture – was making him uneasy. But soon all Stiles could see was that last brief, hazy memory before he’d blacked out at the preserve. All he could see was Matt’s face leaning over him as he died.

And then there was panic and it was all over his face but he didn’t care, because it all seemed to come together, “It was you… you _killed_ me.”

Matt laughed; cruel and hard and so full of contempt, “As much as I wish as I could say that I had, I confess with a heavy heart that I am _not_ the one who murdered you. I watched you die, yes, but I didn’t lay a hand on you and I certainly didn’t _kill_ you.”

“Then who did?”

There was a brief moment of silence as Matt rose to his feet, shooting Stiles an icy glare in the process, “Dude, your little dilemma is like… this high on my list of problems right now.”

Stiles wasn’t amused – terrified, but not at all amused, “Do you know who killed me?”

Matt threw his hands up in the air and rolled his eyes because, _duh_ – of course he knew. But, unfortunately for Stiles, knowing and sharing were two completely different things.

“Maybe you should skip this whole mysterious bad boy routine and just skip to the part where you tell me who fucking murdered me so I can move on.”

“You know, that’s real big talk for someone who can’t defend themselves.”

“What the hell are you –“

_Pain._

All he could feel was pain. He didn’t think it was possible. He was dead. He _died_. The sun, the wind, the steam from Peter’s showers, the softness of the sheets – he couldn’t feel any of it. And so he just assumed he couldn’t feel at all. Wrong. Wrong, wrong, _wrong_. Stiles wished that Peter, or Laura for that matter, had warned him. Told him that it was possible to feel _something_ even after death. But maybe they didn’t know. Maybe they weren’t aware that it was possible. But that really didn’t matter. Not now.

Not when Matt’s hand was inside of him, fingers wrapped so tightly around the heart he didn’t know he still had.

“You think you know everything,” he seethed, “But you don’t know _shit_.”

It was the same feeling – the same pain he’d felt, lying on the ground at the preserve. The same pain he’d felt before he’d died. Only this time he was conscious enough to know what was happening.

This time he could scream.

The front door slammed shut and there was shouting – a lot of shouting. It sounded like Peter. Matt let go and took a few steps back and seemed a little startled by the sudden intrusion (look who’s talking), but was smiling smugly just the same. Seconds later, he could hear Peter’s footsteps rushing down the hall.

“Stiles!”

He turned to look at him standing in the doorway, face flushed and breathing heavily like he had run all the way home. Like he’d hauled ass just to get here. To save him. And for a second, Stiles thought he would – thought that Peter would wolf out or know some magical way to get Matt to _leave_.

But Peter wasn’t moving, just looking back and forth between him and the window, and when Stiles turned around he realized that Matt was already gone.

***************

“Why the hell didn’t you _tell me_?”

Peter was sitting on the bed with his face in his hands, Stiles in the corner of the room on the floor. They hadn’t spoken since Peter had run into the room, and it felt like an eternity had gone by.

“Tell you wha-“

“Cut the crap!” he snapped, and Stiles jumped; but then Peter’s face softened, if only just a little, “You know exactly what I’m talking about. Just… The _truth_ – I need you to be honest with me Stiles, from here on out. No more secrets.”

“Maybe after you start taking your own advice – you haven’t exactly very revealing lately, either.”

“Stiles, you should have told me…”

Jumping to his feet, he rolled his eyes, “Told you what? About the voices? So you could tell me how absolutely out of my freakin’ mind I was?”

“I wouldn’t have said… I would have believed you.”

“Why? Because I’m _dead_? What about before I died? What about when it was all happening? When everyone was looking at me like I was some _freak_ and stepping back and treating me like some porcelain doll when I was fucking _falling apart_? I was breaking and no one did a god damn thing! They all just watched. You _watched_! And now that I’m dead – now that there’s nothing they can do – they start up with all of the ‘what if’s and ‘I should have’s and it doesn’t mean a damn thing because it doesn’t _matter_. I’m dead and nothing’s going to change that. So don’t fucking tell me you would have believed me – not unless you would have believed me before, when I was still alive.”

There was a brief moment shared when Peter looked up and their eyes connected and Stiles could see some discernible look of emotion on his face – one he knew for certain he’d never seen before. Pain. There was a lot of pain, maybe a little regret. But there was something more. Something he couldn’t quite place and that frightened him. Because it hit him hard and fast that this conversation was going places, that he was going to hear things that maybe he didn’t want to know. That he was going to see new sides of Peter Hale that he was never meant to see. That Peter was going to tell him what Stiles had been refusing to accept all along – that they were connected now, tied together by some cosmic bond. Or maybe just really bad luck.

“I would have believed you, Stiles. Even when you were alive,” his gaze was pointed downward, hand resting lightly against his forehead.

Shame. That was most definitely shame. After years of living with his father, of helping with cases, listening to interrogation techniques and stories of how to spot the liars and the guilty ones… he knew what shame looked like. And even though he really didn’t want to hear what was coming, he needed to – he needed to know why Peter Hale felt _guilty_.

“I could see them… after that night when you ran into me on the street – I could see them. Following you. Everywhere. They were everywhere you went. Talking, laughing, screaming. I didn’t think you could hear them, but then you started… I tried to tell you. That night at Derek’s, when I said we needed to talk, I tried to tell you.”

“Who’s ‘they’? You said ‘ _they_ ’.”

“I tried… I really did…”

“Peter!”

“Matt and…” he stopped, fumbling over the second name with such a pained look in his eye that Stiles almost felt sorry; almost, “Kate… It was Matt and Kate.”

Stiles felt himself sink to the floor, his silent heart weighing heavy in his chest, “Jesus…”

“I’m sorry, Stiles. I’m so sorry.”

And the worst part of it was – Stiles believed him. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He could breathe. For the first time since his death he could feel the air fill his lungs and taste it on his tongue and could feel the soft breeze against his cheeks. It was freedom. Pure, unbridled freedom. He never wanted Peter to wake up – he wanted to stay like this forever.

It still didn’t make sense.

The voices – there had been so many of them, and that alone made it hard to believe that Matt and Kate had done all of this alone. But like Matt said, and Peter reiterated shortly after they’d both regained their wits, there were so many things a spirit could do if they had the energy. Where they had gotten the energy from, though, he didn’t know.

“Spirits can only draw energy from other sources of energy,” he explained, “You can’t draw it from nothing; it’s not a part of you. It’s something you absorb – from people, electricity, nature. They have to be drawing it from somewhere. But it’s hard to tell if their source is incredibly powerful or if they’d just been building up the energy over time.”

“So… you’re saying Matt’s little trick with the lights… I could do that, too?”

“When you’re strong enough, yes.”

“And that thing he did – to my heart – what was that?”

Peter shook his head, “I know it sounds… strange… but you _can_ ‘kill’ a ghost. Not in the literal sense, because you’re already dead. But they can destroy your spirit – this manifestation of energy – and trap your soul in a limbo of sorts. Or that’s what I’ve heard, at least. No one really knows. Because once a spirit is destroyed, that soul never sets foot on earth again. So people just kind of assume…”

“Do you think that’s what they want? To… destroy my spirit?”

“For your sake, I hope not.”

***************

He looked like hell. Neither of them had gotten much rest the night before – something that didn’t affect Stiles as much in his ghostly state as it did Peter. There were dark circles underneath his eyes, eyelids red and swollen. It was like he’d aged years in just one short night and Stiles had a feeling it was from far more than just one night’s loss of sleep.

All morning he just sat at the kitchen table, staring off at nothing, ignoring any and all attempts Stiles made at simple conversation.

Finally, he mustered all of his strength and managed to push the tattered copy of ‘ _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ ’ towards him. It wasn’t much – all in all, he’d only managed to move it about an inch or two – but it was enough to capture Peter’s attention.

“Will you read to me?”

It seemed innocent enough. A simple request. But it wasn’t really what he wanted. He didn’t care about the play – didn’t care about anything, really. Stiles just wanted Peter to talk to him, to hear his voice. Because he was sick of the silence and (for the first time in his life) sick of hearing his own voice. Story time wasn’t going to fix anything. They weren’t going to find the reason why Kate had killed him in a carefully worded monologue. Weren’t going to figure out how to keep Kate or Matt from hurting him again in between the witty banter.

Peter stared at him for a moment before reaching out, running his fingertips over the cover before pulling it closer, opening up to wherever he’d left off the other night when he’d offered to read out loud. It was an offer Stiles hadn’t accepted, but was willing to accept now, and he could tell that Peter knew exactly why. But he didn’t protest; he didn’t say anything at all until he picked up the book and started to read aloud.

The plot didn’t interest him. Neither did the dialogue. He wasn’t paying attention to any of it – not really, anyways – focusing instead on just the sound of Peter’s voice. It was nothing at all like the last time. He’d read the pages of Hamlet aloud with such passion and conviction that had made Stiles realize how truly remarkable Peter’s voice really was. And on that day he could have listened to Peter talk forever.

But now his voice was dry and empty and lifeless, and even though his heart was no longer beating in his chest, he could feel it breaking into a thousand tiny pieces.

***************

“I think you should tell Derek.”

“Right, because that would go over _tremendously_.”

Stiles sighed because he just didn’t _get it_. He’d been trying to drill it into his head for hours now – the pack was vulnerable. Kate had already killed him and there was not a doubt in his mind that she was just getting started. And if she was strong enough to kill on her own, then he could only imagine what she could do with Matt by her side. Killing a werewolf would, no doubt, be a walk in the park for the two of them.

“He deserves to know. What if Kate goes after him? What if she goes after Scott? He needs to know so he can find a way to protect himself.”

“You can’t protect yourself from things you can’t see.”

“Which is exactly why _you need to tell him_. You can see me – you can see _them_. You need to tell him the truth.”

“And what am I supposed to say, exactly?” he snapped, raising his voice and taking Stiles by surprise, “That I can see dead people? That I can hear and see spirits and I saw Kate following you around and did _nothing_ and that’s how you died? That she killed you and I just… let it happen?”

Stiles took a few steps closer, reaching out before letting his hand drop to his side, forgetting for a moment that Peter couldn’t feel his touch. He wanted to be comforting. Wanted to say something – _anything_ – to make Peter feel better. To get him to stop blaming himself. Because it wasn’t worth it. He was dead and finding someone to blame wasn’t going to bring him back. All they could do now was move forward, to try and find a way to keep this from happening again.

“Peter, you tried…”

“I didn’t try hard enough! You’re _dead_ Stiles, and it’s all my fault.”

***************

“And you’re sure this will work?”

Peter shot him a look that so clearly read, ‘ _don’t ask questions you already know the answer to_.’ And it was obvious that he was the furthest thing from sure. Still, Stiles felt the need to ask – because it didn’t even seem _possible_ , let alone helpful.

“So… what?” Stiles continued to muse out loud, “I just waltz right into your dream? Like, how the fuck do you even _do_ that?”

“It’s not that hard. I did it with Lydia.”

“Yeah but like – you were already inside of her or whatever and that sounded so totally wrong. Jesus…”

“It’s not that hard.”

“Can we stop with the euphemisms? Please?”

“Suck it up. Not my fault you have a dirty mind.”

Stiles rolled his eyes and kind of sort of maybe cracked a smile, “You’re an asshole.”

***************

It was an odd feeling, forcing himself into Peter’s unconscious mind.

A tidal wave of sensation came crashing over him, and for a few moments he was completely frozen. It knocked the breath right out of him.

_Breath_.

He could _breathe_. For the first time since his death he could feel the air fill his lungs and taste it on his tongue and could feel the soft breeze against his cheeks. It was freedom. Pure, unbridled freedom. He never wanted Peter to wake up – he wanted to stay like this forever.

But they couldn’t, and Stiles knew he didn’t have much time. Six minutes, give or take. He knew that, in here, it would feel like more but it would still never be enough.

It came as a bit of a surprise that he actually had to _find_ Peter. He had never realized that a dream was an entire world within itself, that it was vast and seemingly endless and – like the real world – existed permanently. Stiles had just assumed that he would find himself wherever Peter was as soon as he slipped into the dream. Fortunately, it didn’t take him long.

He was dreaming about Beacon Hills. The time frame was rather unclear, so he checked all the places he knew Peter might be. The Hale house, the hospital, Derek’s loft, eventually finding himself at Peter’s condo.

“How original,” he muttered to himself before walking straight into the door; he stumbled back, and paused in a brief moment of panic and confusion before rolling his eyes at his own idiocy and ringing the doorbell.

He opened the door a few moments later looking so deliciously smug it made Stiles want to slap him – because he could do that now, “You walked into the door, didn’t you?”

“Stop enjoying this so much.”

Peter just laughed, turning on his heel and walking away, Stiles hurrying in after him.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He watched Peter as he fell farther and farther away, sitting at the foot of his bed with his head in his hands looking rather upset and frustrated, and for a moment he felt a twinge of guilt because it was his fault. Because sometimes he forgot that there was a heart buried deep down inside his cold, hard chest – way down deep under all of the sarcasm and sass and selfishness. Sometimes he forgot how much Peter truly regretted the things that he had done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a really long time, and I apologize. I'm going to try and update more regularly.

“Oh my _god_ …”

Never in his life had an apple tasted so good. Even though he knew he wasn’t _really_ eating an apple, it was the first time he’d tasted food in far too long and he was enjoying every damn second of it – much to Peter’s dismay. The noises he made were so animalistic; even he couldn’t believe they were coming from his mouth.

“Are you done?” Peter rolled his eyes and leaned up against the counter, folding his arms across his chest.

“No – I want another.”

He went to grab another from the basket, but Peter swatted his hand away, “You’re _done_.”

“Seriously? Come on – just one more. Please?”

“It’s not real. You know that, right?”

Stiles rolled his eyes, “I know, I know it’s just –“

“Projections of my subconscious mind based on memories and perceptions.”

“But, okay – question. If none of this is real, how come I can feel things and taste things?”

Peter looked at him for a moment, as if the question he’d just posed held some sort of value, like it was actually valid; but then he simply shook his head and swatted Stiles’ hand away from the bowl once more, “It’s not real. You’re not actually _feeling_ anything.”

“Then why isn’t the same as out there? If I’m a ghost and can’t feel or touch or move or taste anything out there, why can I do it – sorry, why can I interact with your _projections_ in here?”

It was a good point – they both knew it – but neither of them really knew how to answer the question. So Peter just let it slide, making some snide remark of how he would have paid more attention in his philosophy classes back in college if he wanted to debate subjects like this that Stiles was perfectly content to pretend he didn’t hear.

***************

When the dream came to an end, it felt like falling. Everything just seemed to stop – freezing mid-moment as it all started to fade away. He watched Peter as he fell farther and farther away, sitting at the foot of his bed with his head in his hands looking rather upset and frustrated, and for a moment he felt a twinge of guilt because it was his fault. Because sometimes he forgot that there was a heart buried deep down inside his cold, hard chest – way down deep under all of the sarcasm and sass and selfishness. Sometimes he forgot how much Peter truly regretted the things that he had done (though he’d never actually say it out loud) and that there were some things that were just… never meant to be mentioned. Not like this; not the way he’d brought it up. Peter could handle them – would take them in stride – as quick remarks and retorts. Those had never seemed to bother him. Or maybe he was just better, then, at hiding it.

Either way, he’d made a big mistake and he hoped that Peter’s dream would be like so many others he’d had himself in the past – that he’d wake up and only remember bits and pieces, or would forget it all entirely.

***************

As it turned out, he wasn’t so lucky.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“Why do I get the feeling you’re more upset about the fact that I _talked_ to her than what she said about you?”

“I just… why didn’t you just tell me?”

Stiles shook his head, standing up and pacing the room a bit, “You weren’t here when I got back. And in case you haven’t noticed, a lot has happened between then and now – so are you really that surprised that it slipped my mind?”

Up until now, he hadn’t really seen Laura’s sudden appearance in and of itself a big deal. He did, however, find himself a little concerned at the time about what she had been saying. Her advice was biased; she of all people had valid reasons not to trust Peter. But she knew him better than Stiles did. She had grown up with him. Knew what he was like before the fire and, in hindsight, probably understood better than most why he’d done what he did.

Stiles understood, to a certain degree. At the time, Peter hadn’t really seen any other choice. It was what he had to do. Because the only thing that had mattered to him then was revenge. Things were different now. He’d been through so much, had died, was resurrected – given another chance. Now, he had so much to lose. From what he’d gathered here and there from brief conversation since Peter had come back from the grave, it seemed like resurrection was a one-time deal. This was it for him. If he fucked things up now, there was no going back.

***************

“Why did you show me how to do it, then?”

They were in the kitchen now, (thankfully) having moved past the topic of Laura Hale and her impromptu visit to Stiles’ grave at the cemetery, discussing their adventures in dream land while Peter sipped tea and tried to read the paper. It, apparently, wasn’t good for much of anything and served pretty much no purpose. Peter woke up feeling no different than he had before he went to bed, and Stiles was a little crushed to learn that crashing other people’s dreams wasn’t a bountiful – or very viable, for that matter – source of energy. According to Peter, it typically wasted it.

“Because you want to tell Derek the truth.”

“No – I want _you_ to tell him the truth. Big difference. He can’t see me, remember?”

“But now you know how to get in his head – problem solved.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that I’m dead! He’s just doing to think it’s his mind tapping into a memory or nostalgia or something, no matter what I say.”

“Then you need to make him believe you.”

“And how do you suggest that I do that?”

Peter looked up from the newspaper in his hands, a smile ghosting on his lips as he raised an eyebrow, “I might have an idea.”


	12. Chapter 12

     The moon was hardly a sliver in the sky when they left Peter's condo and started off towards Derek's loft. They had spent the whole day practicing, training, focusing his energy but he still didn't feel ready. But Stiles wasn't sure he ever would. This was huge - bigger than huge - and, from what he understood, would leave him weak and vulnerable for hours if not more. An incredibly unsettling thought when there were two incredibly powerful, incredibly pissed ghosts out there who wanted him out of the picture.

     "I don't think I can do this."

     Peter rolled his eyes, "Of course you can.  _I_   did it."

     "But you're a werewolf and I'm just a person, and you bit her so you were like  _inside_   of her or something - which incredibly weird and kind of perverse, by the way so congrats on being a creep. I'm just a puny little human ghost, there's nothing special about me. I can't do this."

     "It doesn't matter what you were once you're dead. All ghosts are the same, werewolf or not. You can do this."

     "You just don't want to talk to him," Stiles mumbled.

     Peter let out a soft grunt and picked up his pace, pulling his jacket tighter around his body. It was an unusually cold night for the time of year and it seemed as though even a hot blooded werewolf such as himself wasn't a fan of the chill biting at his neck.

     There was a roll of thunder in the distance, soft and unassuming, but it made Peter pause just long enough for it to be noticeable by an observant eye. It wasn't something he'd ever really thought about before but it left him wondering if the werewolf felt ill will toward storms. Thunder was no doubt excruciatingly loud to their sensitive ears. He wondered if Derek and Scott felt the same. His friend had never mentioned a new found distaste for them after he'd been turned, though he couldn't remember the last time the two of them had been together during a decent storm. It would be an incredible shame if he had.

     Stiles had always enjoyed thunderstorms.

     "I'll get you through the door, but after that you're on your own."

     It was a nice break of silence; if he had been left alone to his thoughts much longer, he probably would have talked himself out of this. But he was unpleasantly surprised by Peter's game plan. They hadn't planned much at all, really, but he still should have seen it coming.

     "Why? Shouldn't you stay just in case something goes wrong?"

     "He doesn't trust me," he said flatly, "If I stay something  _will_   go wrong."

*******************

     Peter got him through the door, just like he'd promised - a conservation of needed energy, he'd called it on the way up the stairs.

     He had knocked on the door before letting himself in, making very small, awkward conversation with his nephew before excusing himself promptly. But much to Stiles' surprise, he had dropped a tiny little bomb before making his grand departure.

     "There's someone who wants to speak with you."

     The loft was quiet. Far too quiet for Stiles' liking and far more quiet than he ever remembered it to be. Derek was a quiet guy, found solace in peace and solitude. But this was different. This quiet, this painful silence - it had weight. It was thick and suffocating and radiating with sorrow. He didn't know how he could live like this, could let all of this weigh down on him every minute of every day. Because, from Stiles' understanding, he hadn't left the loft since he'd died.

     He had to do it.

     Stiles tried to focus, did everything that Peter said to do. He could feel the energy draining with each push, but he kept trying. He tried again and again and again until he was sure that Derek saw him. Until their eyes met. 

     And then, exhausted, he let go.

*******************

     Watching him go out of his mind was damn near impossible.

     Stiles could see the wheels turning, could practically hear his thoughts, his doubts. There was not a doubt in his mind that Derek thought he was going insane, that he was delusional. That there was no possible way that Stiles could have actually been standing in the middle of his apartment. 

     Sitting in a corner, Stiles tried to gather himself as best he could - because he wasn't quite finished yet, there was still work to be done. What he'd just done, it had only been to get his attention, to plant the seed. He wasn't strong enough to apparate long enough for them to have a conversation. For now, that could only be done through dreams. But he needed Derek to know that it wasn't just a dream. This was real. He was here. 

     He needed to warn him.

*******************

     It took hours of pacing and sulking and small outbursts of rage before Derek actually closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift off to sleep.

     Stiles felt incredibly invasive and uncomfortable, but he told himself over and over again that he needed to do this. This was the only way to get Derek to listen - because god knows he would never trust any of this coming out of Peter's mouth.

     The dream was bright, warm, the sound of children's laughter humming in the distance like a soft lullaby. It smelled patchouli and nutmeg and the slightest hint of rose, the steady sound of a knife against a cutting board drawing him further into the house.

     A  _house_. 

     It didn't take long for him to figure out exactly where he was.

     Stiles continued down the long, narrow hallway that emptied out into the kitchen. There was a woman standing at the counter with her back to him, her long, dark hair pulled back with a ribbon, a small daisy tucked behind her ear. A small boy with round, blue eyes hurried into the kitchen with the largest grin that he had ever seen. In her hand she clutched a fist full of daisies. The woman stopped and set down the knife, turning to face the child she gracefully dropped down on one knee. Taking the flowers, she smiled and kissed his forehead and ruffled his hair.

     "They're beautiful..." 

     Beautiful -  _she_   was beautiful. Derek looked just like her.

     "What are you doing here?"

     Stiles was visibly startled, almost perturbed by the sudden intrusion - but he stopped, reminding himself once again that  _he_   was the one intruding, the one who had just interrupted a happy childhood memory. The woman and the boy slowly faded away, and soon it was just the two of them standing in the kitchen of Derek's childhood home.

     "I need to talk to you -"

     Derek cut him off, "You can't be here."

     "Derek, please -"

     "No, you're not supposed to be here. You're not a part of this. You're... you're not real."

     Stiles was quiet for a moment; he wished there was time for him to be more empathetic, "You know that's not true. Please, Derek, we don't have a lot of time."

     There was another bout of silence. Derek stared at him for a long while trying to decide if this was all real or just his subconscious creeping through to the surface - but then he looked away and bowed his head, as if he'd made a decision but wasn't ready to admit what he'd chosen. But Stiles didn't have time to play guessing games.

     And so he told him everything.


End file.
